Page 50 of Glass Jawed

Aarohi

ONE MONTH LATER

“Maaa,” I groan. “I gotta go, pleeaaase!”

“ Arrey beta, just asking! Carol and Sam told us it’s very normal,” she replies in Hindi. “We’re very modern, beta . We don’t mind.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me and say my goodbyes before hanging up.

Modern . Yeah, right!

This is the third time in a week my mom has asked whether I’ve moved in with Lucian.

I haven’t.

Kash and I still have our beautiful condo in the west end of Vancouver.

Lucian and Liam moved into their own apartment five minutes away.

But my mom has eyes sharper than CCTV. She sees Lucian in my apartment almost every night during our video calls.

She knows we’re practically living together—but technically , we’re not.

Kash is still here. And I’m still in denial.

Carol and Sam—Lucian’s parents—have finally met mine, albeit virtually. And apparently... they talk . At least my mom and Carol do. A lot. About everything. Including wedding dates, colors, decor themes.

Meanwhile, Lucian hasn’t even proposed. We’re not... there yet. I mean— he is. And he never fails to remind me.

I’d like to say we’ve been fucking like rabbits—but we haven’t. We haven’t had sex yet.

I’ve spent the last month confronting my sexual hesitancy in therapy. It’s been grueling and heavy. But Lucian’s never pushed. Not once.

We do kiss though. All the damn time.

But no sex.

And I’m working up the courage for that. When Ruth asked me, all those weeks ago, to describe a picture of myself like I was a stranger... I reluctantly started writing it after moving here. And then I cried after only a few words.

I couldn’t write one sentence without the undercurrent of self-loathing.

Lucian found me curled in bed that night, crumpled, tears streaking my cheeks. I’ll never forget how his face changed when he saw what I wrote.

Her collarbones are prominent like they’re trying to escape her skin. Her legs are all angles, knobby knees and bones that don’t know how to fill out jeans properly. She doesn’t need a bra. Even a push up bra can never magically create a proper cleavage.

He didn’t say a word. Just gently took the paper from my hand, crumpled it, and held me for the rest of the night—whispering everything he loved about me. My body. My soul. Every inch, every part.

A few days later, I managed to write something neutral enough to show Ruth. Lucian hadn’t read that one. But that same night, he must’ve slipped a folded paper into my work bag.

Because the next day, I was bawling alone in my office bathroom reading this:

I love her collarbones. Not because they’re sharp, but because they catch my lips, saving every kiss.

I love her legs because they’re mine to tangle with when we sleep, all angles and warmth and the softest pressure against my thighs.

And her boobs? They’re perfect, because they keep my heart tucked safely underneath along with hers.

Poetic asshole.

But that was almost three weeks ago. I’m in a much better place now—thanks to the weekly peer-based support sessions with Kind Mirror . And thanks to someone Lucian introduced me to.

Her name is Diana Marie Graham.

When I learned her story, I cried. For her. For everything she went through. For the fact that her FBI ex-husband showed no remorse. Not even a sliver.

My situation was very different—worlds apart, really—but neither of us pointed that out. We didn’t have to. Apparently, she was also the reason Lucian flew to India in the first place.

“I saw it, Aarohi,” she told me on our Zoom call. “The difference between my ex and Lucian. It wasn’t just remorse. It was love . And I’m glad you found the strength to forgive him.”

“I... he’s different,” I replied softly. “But not really. He’s back . And working on becoming the best version of himself.”

She smiled, and I smiled back. We spoke for almost an hour before she had to go. But just before signing off, she said something that stuck with me.

“The bruises, Aarohi, will fade. Not because he’s trying—but because you are. For yourself. My bruises are almost gone now,” she said with a wistful smile. “Yours will too. Just try not to create new ones while you’re healing.”

One night when Kashvi and I were having dinner on a rare Lucian-free night—I was forced to think about the bruises again.

“I keep waiting... earplugs ready at my nightstand,” she began, her voice trembling—uncharacteristically. “But the sounds of you being ripped into two with his monster dick never come.”

My eyes widened at the way she said it.

“ ‘Rohi, why haven’t you fucked him yet?’ There, fixed it.” I said, all while my face was pure horror.

“Fine,” she rolled her eyes. “Why?”

“Because... because he’s... he’s going to see me and the... the bruises.”

I meant the metaphorical ones. The emotional ones. But apparently, I didn’t say it clearly enough.

She stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled. “Bruises? Who did that to you?”

I exhaled and waved her down, explaining what I meant. That I wasn’t talking about physical marks. But how his old words were like a baseball bat hammering at my already bruised body.

“You’re afraid he’ll... add more bruises?” She squinted at me.

I nodded dumbly.

She was quiet for a while before she frowned. “Damn. That’s deep. But also dumb . But also deep .”

Then she shrugged. “Well, he’s already seen you naked. And aren’t you the one holding the bat this time?”

It was like her stupid, eccentric comment snapped something into place. That I got to decide how close someone got to me. Not like last time—when it felt like his decision. His pursuit. His power.

This time, it was mine .

Things didn’t change overnight, but slowly—like shifting sunlight across a wall.

Our kisses have been lasting longer. My hands have been wandering further.

And tonight... I’m planning something that just might tip us over the edge of all these constant hard-ons and soaked panties.

Kashvi has been politely kicked out. I don’t need her to use her earplugs tonight. Hopefully she finds her way to Liam’s place.

Lucian will be here any minute. His apartment is more of a glorified office these days, so he camps there from 9 to 6 like a stubborn CEO. With Liam.

And at exactly 6:15 pm, he usually shows up. Never later.

Unless he’s bringing flowers. Or food. Or both.

God , I hope it’s not food today. Because I cooked. For us .

I check the time. 6:12 pm.

Panic mode: activated .

I dart to the table I’ve set up like some Pinterest cliché—non-alcoholic wine, a vase with exactly one flower (who does that?), a white tablecloth that keeps slipping, and the lights dimmed just enough to hide my nerves.

And me. Standing there. In a fucking robe. Nothing underneath.

Maybe I should’ve gone with a trench coat? Or ordered one of those sexy, complicated lingerie sets with garter belts and chokers and matching thigh straps from... where?

Shit . Too late now.

The front door clicks.

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

I scramble into position, leaning oh-so-casually against the table—only for it to skid half an inch under my weight. I’m mid-stumble, mid-regret, when Lucian walks in.

His gaze lands on the table. Then me.

Then the very obvious fact that I’m naked under the poorly tied robe that’s threatening to give up on life.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is low. Thick.

I freeze.

He stares. His bag drops to the floor. His shoes are kicked off like he doesn’t even register them.

And he just keeps looking at me like I’m his last thought, his first dream, and every damn craving in between.

“Baby...” he rasps.

I swallow. “Yes, Luc?”

That’s all it takes.

He’s on me in seconds. Mouth on mine, hands already tugging at the belt of the robe.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck ,” he murmurs into my lips. “Are you sure?”

I answer by grabbing his cock over his jeans. His groan nearly unravels me.

The robe slides off. Forgotten.

So is the dinner. The wine. The table.

He doesn’t touch me immediately. Just stares.

His eyes trail over me with something between reverence and raw hunger. His breath is shaky, his jaw tight.

Then he smiles. Slow.

“One day,” he says, “I’m going to make love to you as my wife .”

My heart stutters.

“And that day is exactly one year from today, got it?”

My eyes widen. “No. No, no—absolutely not—”

He has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Relax. This isn’t the proposal.”

I blink.

“It’s a warning,” he adds with a smug smile. “The proposal’s coming, sweetheart.”

I laugh—half scandalized, half giddy—just as his hands finally settle on my waist. Then lower. Palming my ass.

His lips trail my neck, making me shiver all over.

“Our moms already picked the date, baby,” he mutters against my skin.

Before I can ask him to stop talking about our mothers, his hand slides down, fingers dipping between my legs.

He groans when he finds how ready I am.

I gasp as his mouth claims mine again—this time deeper, darker, more desperate .

And just like that, I’m suddenly scooped up—bridal style.

His grip is strong, steady. Like I weigh nothing. Like I’m something precious.

He doesn’t stop until we’re in my bedroom, laying me gently on the bed. His sweater comes off in one fluid motion, followed by his jeans. He’s already hard.

Lucian pauses, kneeling on the mattress beside me, just staring.

“My God, Rohi,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He touches me reverently—palms gliding from my collarbone to my hipbone, like he’s memorizing the dips and hollows.

“You know what I thought on the first night we made love?” he asks, lowering to kiss the spot just below my ear.

“Hmm?” I hum, breath hitching as his lips trail down my neck.

“That if I could just get you to look at me like I mattered... that would be enough.”

He kisses my shoulder. My collarbone. “Now you look at me like I’m everything. And baby... I’m never taking that for granted.”

I smile through a gasp. “You’re really monologuing right now?”

He chuckles against my skin. “Shut up and let me worship you in peace.”

I drag him closer by the waistband of his boxers. “Fine. Proceed.”

He slips them off, kissing my hip as he does. Then he runs his hands along my thighs, parting them slowly. “These legs?” he says, his voice reverent. “I dream of them wrapped around my face.”

“They’re perfect,” he says, kissing the inside of my knee. “And they’re mine .”

When he lowers his mouth to my pussy, I nearly come undone. His tongue is slow, skilled, purposeful. I moan his name, hips arching.

“Luc, fuck... don’t stop.”

He licks, nibbles, flicks, with masterful precision. And I’m falling. My release finding me somewhere between a moan and a grunt.

“You taste like sin,” he whispers when he finally pulls away. “And I would gladly go to hell for you.”

I tug him upward, but he takes his time. Kissing all the way up. Spending an inordinate portion on my breasts. My hands fist into his hair. Tugging him upward until my mouth crashes to his.

“Stop being poetic and fuck me, Lucifer,” I whisper against his lips.

He groans into my mouth. “Say that again.”

I smirk. “Lucifer.”

“I am so in love with you,” he breathes, settling between my thighs. “So stupidly, utterly in love with you.”

Then he’s inside me.

And I gasp—not just from the sensation, but from the intimacy of it. The way he holds still for a second, forehead pressed to mine, hands cradling my face like I might vanish.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yes.” I nod. “But move, baby. Please...”

He groans again, but this time it’s guttural. Like my plea just destroyed him.

He moves slowly at first, every stroke deliberate. His lips never leave my skin—my neck, my jaw, my breast.

“This body?” he whispers, kissing the swell of my chest. “These gorgeous tits. I love every inch.”

I moan as he fastens his pace. He praises me through every movement, every thrust. Through kisses and whispered declarations, through fingers tangled with mine and the way he says my name like it’s sacred .

When we’re close, I feel it. Not just the build-up—but the emotion in it. The ache. The palpable relief .

“I love you,” I whisper through ragged breaths.

His eyes meet mine. Shining. Soft. “I love you too, Rohi, so much. ”

And this time, when we shatter, we do it together. Whole. Chosen. Ours.